Tag Archives: crazy

The everyday of Batshit Crazy.

There is a certain charm in insanity that you have to admire.

I am sitting in Starbucks without the benefit of my aluminum foil hat.

And, evidently, I REALLY need one.

Because the zombie apocalypse is off the table, only to be replaced by CRAZY MOTHERFUCKERS.

It all started with the lizards.

Lizards, now don’t quote me here, are running everything.

I came in late, middle of the conversation, so I can only report what I managed to piece together.

  1. The lizards run everything behind the scenes, like a shadow government. Politicians, the authorities, and the Jews that run Hollywood, are all under their thumb.
  2. The lizards are out to kill people and reduce the world populations. They are doing this thru a variety of different evil plans.
  3. The lizards are cannibals, and eat people. (Technical point here. Lizards, being a different species, are not eating their own people, just us. So they are not cannibals, just predators.)

The lizards are a clever bunch, from the sounds of it.

Their main method of culling the human population?

Cancer causing toilet paper.

I may just shit myself at the hysterical craziness of it all. (But I am afraid to wipe my ass at this point. I would use newspaper but I am afraid the ink will transfer words onto my ass cheeks like when you press Silly Putty onto newsprint. I know how crazy this sounds, but serious insanity can be passed like a mental STD without the availability of penicillin. Mind your own business.)

The whole presentation is a macabre little bit of theater.

The main authority on Lizards and their vile activities is a bald guy with a sweaty head in an air conditioned room that we will call Mad Hatter. I chose that name because it really captures the crazed glint in his eyes.

His sidekick has yet to say an actual word. He just grunts in agreement or makes a derisive snort of disbelief. He is a non=speaking hype-man for this performance. We will call him Grunt.

Mad Hatter seems to have an issue with his coffee.

Prior to every sip, he peers thru the drink hole in his cup, eyes narrowed with suspicion.

What’s he looking for?

What will suddenly be there before that next sip that wasn’t there before the last one?

I am a huge believer in individual rights and I am against the state having too much power…..but-

I would be ok with them putting these two creepy sum-bitches down for the greater good.

Harsh times, harsh solutions, good coffee.

And coffee can make it all better.

Ok, I will relent, lets let the boys live, I am feeling benevolent.

Can you tell that my coffee cooled down enough to drink a few lines ago?

Thats how it goes, life is dire and scary without proper coffee.

Mad Hatter and Grunt are still batshit crazy, but they are not my problem.

But, and this is important, they are SOMEBODIES problem.

There is someone, somewhere, that is stuck with these paranoid shitbags.

God forbid, a wife somewhere.

The poor woman must drink, that is the only way I can see her getting thru her day.

Drinking and plotting his death.

Not sure what it is about the boys that brings out the dark and evil here, but it keeps coming up.

I mean, we all saw Old Yeller as kids and everyone cried their eyes out.

But you have to do it, but its wrong.

You have me in a box here.

Let me think about it before I call the authorities to euthanize Mad Hatter and Grunt.

(Just watched the ending of Old Yeller on Youtube, made me tear up, even decades later.)

While I am contemplating, Mad Hatter just ponied up that the President and most of Congress are really lizards.

That would actually explain a lot.

A new idea has popped into my head.

With the right amount of prodding, Mad Hatter and Grunt are just the men America needs to take care of the lizards.

Because it starts with Lizards and ends up with the zombie holocaust.

Correction, it starts with coffee.

Lets not forget why we are here.

Mmmm coffee.

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Posted by on April 29, 2016 in Uncategorized


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Karma is now my personal hitman.

High school reunions are always a dicey thing, at best.

However, and this comes from crashing several high school reunions for years that I did not graduate in, but there may be a reason why some of us never stayed in touch.

Don’t get me wrong, there are some people I really enjoyed seeing. People that only life and circumstance has kept from hanging out with.

And then there are some that, 10 seconds after you start talking to them, you realize why you last saw or thought about them was in high school itself.

As a last minute thing, I recently went to a reunion for a year I did not graduate in.

Here is why it was last minute. Although I clicked on the “Going” button on Facebook, I was not planning on going, I was just tired of it sitting in the Invites section, staring at me.

It was in a beach city bar that I once got wildly drunk in and almost beaten to death. Call me superstitious but I am a big believer in bad vibes.

However, I found myself walking thru the front door.

And it was fine, I ran into a few people that totally reminded me of why that was one of the best periods of my life.

I also ran into a few that make me sooooo happy we were not closer back then.

A bitch rarely ages well, and there is a special brand of fugly that happens to the “Uber” bitches of our youth.

 Before you go all feminist on me, the primary bitch in my mind is a guy.

Several others were, in fact, women. That being said, I am kind of blind, sexism wise, on the subject of dislike.

Here are my top 5 reasons for dislike overheard at the reunion:

1. “She and I have hated each other since high school. She’s a slut”. (Translation- My boyfriend back then slept with her because I was holding out. I am incapable of blaming him.)

2. “She has hated me since high school, I don’t know why.” (Translation- I knowingly slept with her boyfriend back in school and I am incapable of blaming myself.)

3. “That chick is crazy.” (Translation- I cheated on my girlfriend with her in highschool and I am incapable of blaming myself.)

(Side note: Are you beginning to pick up on the Peyton Place/Jerry Springer drama here?)

4. “I hated you in high school.” (Translation- During the most insecure time in my life, you scarred me for life.)

5. “You were hysterical in high school.” (Translation- I took a lot of voyeristic pleasure in watching you torment others.)

And the only one I regret not hanging out with is the one I tormented. Its for the better, I was a rotten friend back then.

Now, here is the section of the blog were I get into the exciting part.

Just about every woman I went to high school with are at an intoxicating peak of hotness.

Its incredible what happens to a woman after she is done being a scared kid.

There is a level of confidence that only time can give but under the right circumstances, it can hit like a sensual meth for the libido.

Like a kid in a candy store.

But everybody, man or woman alike, breaks up into 3 catagories.

The first category is those friends who hit nirvana at some point, either married or not. They are worth a fortune, don’t talk about their money and seem genuinely happy.

Fuck em. I distrust these people on an instinctive level.

The second group is those who have kind of gone a different route. They have fucked up a lot since high school, but this seems to be the age that they get it together. They are innocent, like children, without that negative connotation.  They are warriors, fighting for every inch to regain ground they lost. More power to them.

The third group are my people. The functionally damaged. We are married or divorced and not wildly happy about one. If the career is high end, the relationship reads like a horror movie. If the career has had some rough turns, the relationship usually sucked in the past and they are on a better road. But the baggage is there, and the stories are better.

These are people who need to unwind.

And, sometimes, you find a little peace in the chaos. A little ray of sunshine among the dark. Some woman age well and then there are the ones that kill it. Always an odd thing to suddenly be overwhelmed by the earthy sensuality of a woman who is empowered and knows what she wants.

Enough said.

In all, I am glad I went, ran into some old friends, saw some old trash I once knew, and met one or two new friends.

And who doesn’t need some new friends?

In all, everyone seemed to have a good time, some more than others. Some, like the poor unfortunate that was being fed into the back of the police car as I was leaving.

Turns out she was the one who hated me, way back when.

I hate you too, sweetie. (And yes, I did laugh)


Posted by on September 5, 2014 in Uncategorized


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I’m hip, man.

It’s the 60’s.

The beat generation, cynical and critically dumb.

Smoking their cigarettes backwards, snapping their fingers in lieu of clapping, reading REALLY bad homespun angst-filled poetry, out loud mind you, to like minded dipshits that think its brilliant.

There is a poetry group meeting on the over-sized stone patio at the LAX Starbucks.

Its a pretty grim bunch.

This would have been a motley crew in their 20’s, now imagine that same unwashed image you have in your head as being in their 50’s. (AND NOT AGING WELL.)

The poetry is some of the most self-indulgent mental swill I have ever heard.

It gives new meaning to the term “Narcissistic”.

Kind of a mental grassy knoll to take aim at your intellect.

But they are not acting alone.

You have to wonder how these 10 people found each other in a world this large.

It’s like AIDS and E-Coli go to a bar and meet up with Spanish Flu and decide to start a band.

“The eternal me is but a leaf, stuck in a cosmic sewer.” (Direct quote)

I wish the line above was an exaggeration made by yours truly.

However, that self indulgent verbal puke was real, and uttered by a mid 50’s guy with a mullet, bowling shirt, khaki shorts, black knee socks and sandals.

Black socks with shorts? Who says theres no crime at the beach?

Think of Billy Ray Cyrus mixed with a homeless guy. Some of that Miley-style crazy.

I have been told that I am too judgemental, too harsh without provocation.

Fuck it, this dude is all kinds of crazy stank, rolled in self indulgent polyester.

And it has not bathed recently. (True, the wind shifted and I got a whiff.)

So now my nose is being gang raped along with my ears and my intellect.

Overly dramatic, maybe. But the line between an overly dramatic douchebag and an accuracy driven asshole is a thin one at times, and the same thing the rest of the time.

And yes, I get it, I should not make fun of the shitty poets. Their look, their style of dress, and certainly not their SHITTY FUCKING POETRY!

Two things. So be it. And bite me.

And before we start that whole “Why did you go there?” thing, lets just understand that I AM THERE, and I rarely go elsewhere.

I am glad I got that off my chest.

On to better things.

Long story, but I have the day off of work.

Not working is a good thing for most people.

Except me.

One of my more neurotic issues is the fact that while I don’t love work, I feel awkward when I am not there.

I like to think of think of it as my immigrant ancestry showing.

And not immigrant sneaking across the border, I mean coming thru Ellis Island immigrant. (At least my great grandfather did.)

There is no real joke here, just the one on us when everyone realizes that the several million welcomed illegals that are streaming across the border are going to have to have someone pay their tab.

There, got my little rant in. I feel better, like my mental/emotional colen just started a cleanse and a sizable quantity of “Shit” just passed.

Thinking about it, that would make this blog a toilet.

I am ok with that. The imagery is a little nasty, but the analogy is solid.

One of the unwashed beatnik’s just said the word “Profit” 10 times in a row, smacking his chest the whole time.

Thise is beginning to take on a whole new level of fucking horrible that I have never seen before.

This might be a spoiler alert from a horror film. The killer kidnaps someone, chains them to the wall in some filthy tiled bathroom, and trots out the beatniks to perform.

And the hostage chews thru his own neck it get away.

I could definitely see that.

It would be worth it.

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Posted by on July 11, 2014 in Uncategorized


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Forecast crazy, with a hint of German.

Crazy never realizes its crazy, that is part of its charm.

Crazy is also pretty common.

Home grown crazy that is.

International crazy is a little more rare.

And German crazy is legendary.

I am in the Starbucks just a stones throw from Los Angeles International Airport.

Which is right across the street from the biggest, easiest hotel to get to on the main road leading into the airport.

Which means that, on a daily basis, you cannot swing a dead cat by the tail without smacking a tourist square in the melon.

Its late morning and I am well caffeinated.

Why am I not at work? That is an simple question with a complicated answer that I don’t feel like supplying.

Besides, I need something to write about, and I’m nowhere near as exciting as crazy and sarcastic.

And crazy and sarcastic is what I have found.

I have been here for awhile and need a caffeine refill.

The line is light, just a few people.

The woman in front of me is dressed conservatively, mid 40’s, blond hair that doesn’t appear dyed.

Speaking German into her cell phone.

Lets call her Ilsa. (Ingrid Bergman was the hottest thing on two feet in Casablanca.)

There is something sinister about the German language.

Whenever I hear it, I always imagine it being shouted from a podium.

And English with a German accent is even worse.

As she gets to the cashier, she gets off of her phone, unscrews the lid from her plastic Starbucks cup and hands it over.

“Iced coffee, please.” (Sinister German accent.)

“And could you WASH it please?” (Extra emphasis on Wash.)

The cashier is not phased, he nodes and takes it to the sink.

And that is when Ilsa drops the bomb.

“WASH it like YOU are going to drink out of it.”

And the cashier fires it right back.

“I would NEVER drink out of this.”

Take that shit, bitch!

Doesn’t even phase her.

“Please do not touch it to the bottom of the sink.”



There is a dynamic here that is difficult to convey.

Her OCD is obviously the cleaning/germaphob version.

And he is the jaded “Fuck you AND your coffee” cashier.

Its an awesome combo that plays well off of each other.

Once the nazi’s cup was cleaned, to the cashier’s snuff but certainly not hers, it was filled with ice and pour steaming, over-priced house drip over it.

As he handed it over, perhaps a little smirk playing at his lips, she aced his lob back for the game.

She wrinkled her nose, sniffed it disdainfully, glared at him and walked off.

Well played, Fraulein.

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Posted by on May 16, 2014 in Uncategorized


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The heart wants what it wants

I’m in love.

True, I’ve said this before, but this time its the real deal.

She’s a force of nature, this one.

She’s also somewhere past the age of 80.

I pulled into Starbucks parking lot and saw an old woman screeching at cars.

Homeless? Not sure. Bat shit crazy, absolutely.

I parked and watched as she made her way towards Starbucks.

She was awesome, this kind of crazy is rare.

She was furious, at all times, walking along and muttering in anger at everything she passed.

People, chairs, small dogs, everybody got a snarl and muttered curse word from her.

I have named her Mona, for Mona Lisa, the woman of many sides.

Into Starbucks we go. (Or down the rabbit hole, take your pick.)

The line was about medium, 4-5 people.

The fun began rather quickly. (I would feel bad for enjoying all of this, but I came to peace with this a long time ago.)

“Wipe you’re goddam feet!” Was hissed at a man in an impeccable business suit coming thru the door. He looked confused and backed out.

Mona runs a tight ship.

“Don’t take all day!” This was directed in the general direction of the cashier. It caused a bunch of fluttering activity around the register but didn’t speed things up.

Mona has little patience for wasted time.

“What’s so funny?!?!” She was pissed now. This was directed at me when I laughed. I really couldn’t help myself.

Mona is my soulmate, I swear.

I made no large movements, just backed away. I didn’t say anything. Nothing catches crazy’s attention like a response.

She kept it together long enough to order a grande house drip.

It took a full minute to order because Mona kept asking the cashier to repeat her order back to her, before she had ordered anything.

For the life of me, I cannot figure out if she is crazy AND homeless, or just crazy.

Either way, she’s awesome. Its not often a human being transcends being a normal person and becomes a force of nature, something to be reckoned with and in some/most instances, feared.

And this little honey is loaded for bear.

She stomped her aged little butt over to the pick up window and planted her Witchee-poo (Google it) shoes in the space that people hurriedly made for her.

She got her coffee, shuffled over to the cream and sugar kiosk, which just happened to be deserted during prime time (HA), Then made her way to the door.

It was here that she took her already powerful, bat-shit crazy routine and knocked it out of the park.

“This music is shit!” Loudly at no one in particular. (Wait for it…)

“Get the hell out of here!” Some sane old guy said to her, not yelling, but firmly loud. (Wait for it………)

“BAAAAAA!!!” Shaking her fist at all of us, like some sort of old world granny curse. I shit you not.

Much like remembering where you were when Kennedy was shot, I will remember this day and that force of nature in support hose and comfortable shoes till the day I die.

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Posted by on April 4, 2014 in Uncategorized


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The Cell Phone God’s are not pleased.

A lot of people have many layers, like an onion.

I am no different.

Asshole, by the way, is a layer unto itself.

Its healthy, in a way, to embrace the asshole within.

Let him out on occasion, let him piss on the grass, decompress.

Some of us need that decompression, for the safety of the general public.

Trust me on this, the last thing ANYBODY needs is me all twisted up.

Its not pretty, and thats just looking at it from this side, God knows what it looks like from your side.

I’m a mess, but thats ok, I have accepted it.

Nuff said.

Moving on.

There is a certain feeling of dread that runs thru you when your iPhone falls in the toilet.

Its an ass pucker of 9 out of 10.

Even if you snatch it out immediately, you have no idea of how bad or good it is at this point.

So you wash your hands immediately while muttering the F-word under your breath.

I tapped my phone in my palm for lack of anything better to do.

And the little bit of moisture that comes out is not reassuring in any way.

So, I googled it.

According to several websites on the subject, Turn off the phone immediately.

I didn’t know if it was off or on, so I held the button on.

Shit, the boot up white apple logo came up.

It was already off. Great.

The main screen came on, but I shut it off anyway.

It has been in a ziplock of white rice for 24 hours.

I thought about using brown rice, but I wasn’t sure if glycemic rating played a part.

I stared at it for a solid 5 minutes.

Can you see water evaporating?

I finally broke down and went to Fry’s Electronics and bought a cell phone dry bag.

For those not in the know, it is a high tech ziplock with 2 large gel bags.

Larger versions of those toxic gel packets you find in a new pair of shoes.

Its later.

I keep staring over to the counter where the iPhone sits in its high tech drying bag.

Water damage is not covered by warranty.

Being an idiot is rarely covered by warranty.

So for the next 24 hours, the iPhone is locked in its bubble.

And tomorrow I get to find out if I dodged a bullet or did I cost myself a ridiculous amount of money to fix my stupidity.

And I am pretty sure my ass cheeks will not unclench until then.


And the bad thing is, I know in the back of my head, that it is just a cell phone.

Except that it isn’t.

Its an addiction, plain and simple.

Between email, Facebook, Twitter, and an embarrassing slew of stupid apps, the phone is up there with crack, but has the apparent acceptability of coffee.

Which is an addiction of a different sort.

But this is not about me.


Its always about me.

We’ve met, right?

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Posted by on February 17, 2014 in Uncategorized


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